Deer in the Headlights

Thanks goes to Ina Branco for the inspiration.

Right to the lightless heart of night I drove:
Not to waste an instant have I had a right.
And as the road lead me through the grove,
A silhouette ahead have caught my sight

It was a doe I saw, young, tall and fair,
All clad in glamour, the forest's rose —
With eyes blinded by my headlight flare,
In tracks directly on my path she froze.

And so did very time then freeze as well,
It came to stand as if it was made to show
Me the glimpse of animal's dire awe in swell
One slice of moment before the blow.

The fawn was standing still, bereft of fear,
In bold acceptance with her tragic lot,
Emotionless, despite death approaching near,
It was not in motion she was caught.

Deer, said I, please make your leave,
You'll stay unscathed if you step away!
Speed's high: an impact won't let you live,
It is too late for car to change its way.

But nothing was my answer, just her eyes
Have closed to show that fate was sealed,
Like if our touch would her award some prize,
For that, the pain would not make her yield.

The time grew bored, reluctant it went on
Foreseenably the contact was brief indeed,
In fearsome maw of doom my doe was thrown,
The car had got nothing but a minor skid.

Involountary hangman, had I then to halt
And seek her out, yet maybe still alive?
My hurry whispered that suicide's not my fault,
I've shed a tear and kept on my drive.

You are my theme for a dream

And thus I have sinned. I fail to keep the distance. You are becoming less and less abstract with each passing hour. You, my beacon of fantasy, you the a priori unreachable dream. With trembling heart I am to witness illusion fuse with fact, the sanity vows for action while the feeling is left paralyzed. Patch by patch, the fairy fleshes, filling the perception gaps and correcting the wrong guesses.

Should I watch the muse succumb to the mortal coil, move on and paint another face on the banner of mine? May it be nobler in the mind if I let the word lose and let the vibrant feeling violently crush against subjectively unfortunate reality? Being a man is all about taking the risks and the responsibility, but how is it even remotely wise to charge headlong into the realm of certain impossibility where all slightest chances have long withered? Yet I dare. Yet I do dare to dream at night. I dream and sincerely I can't help it. Yes, I have sinned.

I will not allow myself backstabbing what little relationship we may still have for no reason. I'm mad, but I ain't no fool. Given a spare world, I just would love to have been in love with you, no matter what future holds for us.

The Name of the Dæmon

It's said that in order to defeat a dæmon, one has to weaken them by means of knowing their true name. The crafty sods often assume long names with scaring titles in an attempt to conceal their actual nature. Kerath the Unbreakable? Anatheira the Destroyer? Lirath of Helheim? Words carry the meaning, they create impressions, they build a false image of what would be a mere cat's bristling otherwise. Cut the name and you will free your perception of any infusion and misconception the fiend is trying to infest you with. Once trivialized, stripped of his deceiving verbal raiment, little more a dæmon is than a miserable quivering creature. Fetch a knife fast and offer it a swift journey through the wicked beast's throat for no carapace of fancy aliases will be there to prevent the bloodshed. Once an emotion can be named in full and correct qualification it immediately loses all of its holy immunity. You know what to do, right?

Now then, how am I called again?

You, the reference

God created an universe of quanta, physics says. It is said that the reason dominates the consequence in value, and the lower the level organisation is, the close it is to the final truth. In a perfect world we would dig this mine until we eventually obtain that one fundamental level of Creation and be happy proclaiming science being a complete knowledge. Yet, the more we learn, the more likely this search seems to be infinite in the purest meaning of the word. There just may happen not to be any principal base point and the onion of the matter structure nesting may propagate in both directions just indefinitely. In all this complexity I am frequently lost. Head carried away by the wild kaleidoscope of deep philosophy and just false thoughts, I helplessly slip down on my knees struggling to regain the assurance of being a human. Give me a hand and let me declare you the ultimate reference.

You can trace all your thoughts and actions back to biological origin. By sequential application of natural science of various level you can decompose but everything within your mind into a long chain of causal relations, unless you get unluckily trapped into the quantum paradoxes. Conscience, character, feeling — all forged in neural plexi as a complex reaction on stimuli. Every a your deed can probably be predicted, yet in all this behavioural noise I can sketch out your soul, an essence of yours, if you would, whether it exists as a separate entity or not. For if I am how can you not be per se? Cogito ergo sum and therefore you are as well by the same logic. Finally, I just want to lift all the view angle resolution away. I just want you to be my reference point.

All I ask you is to be. To be real. To be my world.

Scorching out

I've not even fallen in love. I'm bloody obsessed. Senses falling apart and paranoia prevailing, I barely can grasp myself together, but in my madness I am still wise to have set myself a goal, visible through any a stirred reason. Whether this insanity is a gift or a punishment from the divine, I should be a fool not to use the opportunity. However the only tool is available in this stance: fire.

Fire! Bright flames transforming all matter to a pile of smoldering cinder. Those who never had felt through the notion of destruction shall never grasp the principle of conservation. It's not until the loss that one learns to value. Fire makes no discrimination between what you no longer need and what you might just happen to realize you will need in future. After being scorched, the thing ceases to exist. Quail not, however, to set ablaze more than you originally wanted. What you are in need of you can easily recover, for the manuscripts don't burn(to quote Bulgakov), yet all the weed pest, vines and roots drawing one down will inevitably perish. Fire is a panacea for crowding, it gives space for a newer generation and quite a few times is the only reasonable way to do so.

Let ignited be everything that stands besides. Let faces be forgotten, promises lifted, sins forgiven and never spoken of again. Let everything burn, let me be bereft of diversity in favour of valuable space and freedom of action. On the ashes will I found a novel park, renewed, fresh and devoid of haunting by faces and deeds of the past. Let the paper sheet be clear once again so I get the ability to actually draw what seems hardly possible to even dream of at the moment.